Love, Lies and Lemon Cake Page 3

  I wasn’t sure of the etiquette involved in enquiring about a hamster’s suicide, but I wanted to be there for Mandy. Her mother had died from cancer when Mandy was only sixteen, and as they’d had a difficult relationship she seemed to be left with guilt that she should have spent more time with her mum. Consequently Mandy was fragile under all the bravado and I knew even a hamster’s death would be traumatic for her and must be taken seriously.

  ‘So why did she... what made her do it?’

  ‘Who knows what was going on inside her little furry heart, Faye. I even made her a pink wig out of Barbie hair... she looked proper cool she did. My dad says she was probably depressed running on her little wheel all day... but it was a pink and glittery wheel, so why?’

  I wondered for a moment if wearing a pink wig had affected the hamster’s feelings of identity... then remembered she was a hamster.

  ‘Lady Ga Ga will always be with you, burrowing away in your armpit,’ Sue called loudly over the hairdryers. Unaware this was the name of Mandy’s hamster, some of our newer clients were surprised by this remark, amazed not to have read of the star’s death (and apparent penchant for armpits) in their daily newspaper that morning. Sue and I just carried on like the performers we were, used to rolling out clichés for all occasions at ‘Curl Up and Dye’. We were at the ready for any occasion, be it celebratory or consolatory; we had a wardrobe of faces, voice pitches and scripts. Salon life was like a small planet where everything happened within four walls and the tiniest things took on major proportions. We lived and counselled through first dates, pregnancy scares, deaths, divorces, betrayal and wild love affairs—all of human life was here between the back washes and the guilt-edged mirrors. We’d actually experienced a live birth when Marie Cooper’s waters broke by the roller trolleys to the strains of Wham’s Club Tropicana and Mandy’s guttural screaming. Fortunately one of our clients who happened to be a midwife was in for a cut and blow so brought baby Michael safely into the world with hot water, towels and little fuss. There would have been time to get Marie to the hospital before the head appeared, but Sue never missed an opportunity for salon publicity and called the local paper before she called the ambulance.

  We were all over the papers that week: ‘Bouncing Baby Born in Local Hair Salon’ and a big photo of me and Sue holding the baby between us and beaming, Mandy and Camilla with their arms around us like two proud daughters... Sue was right: we were just like family.

  Later, I caught up with Mandy in the coffee room. ‘Are you feeling a bit better, love?’ I asked, putting my arm around her.

  ‘Yeah... I just get upset... about stuff, you know.’

  ‘I know, love, but you can always talk to me or Sue if you’re feeling low, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I keep thinking it was my fault... that she died.’

  I doubted we were still talking about a hamster. ‘No. No, Mandy you must never think that. People... hamsters... have their own reasons for saying goodbye to this world. Perhaps she finally realised that, despite its glittery appearance, the wheel she was running on was going nowhere, and if she didn’t get off she’d keep running nowhere for the rest of her life,’ I heard myself say, knowing just how she’d felt.

  2

  BULGING MUSCLES AND HISTORICAL HAMS

  The sign said ‘Sandwiches and rolls made on request,’ but I couldn’t imagine how one would ever decide what filling to have, there were so many. The following day I was back in the deli watching a swollen pink ham swinging from the ceiling and contemplating lunch. I didn’t know if I even wanted anything to eat, but I just loved the smell and the feel of this salty, sawdusty place. I was salivating at the sight of marbled orange chorizo, spicy and oily and begging to be tasted, above huge wheels of deep yellow and blue-veined cheeses. My eyes lingered over those cheeses, perfect tight drums to be hacked open and enjoyed, sour, creamy, nutty or tangy on the tongue. There was no cheddar and pickle on white here... not unless the cheese was buffalo and the pickle made from vintage Italian walnuts nurtured under a baking Tuscan sun.

  ‘Are you looking for anything... particular?’ the Australian voice asked, probably wondering why this strange woman was licking her lips and staring blankly and wordlessly at the various cured meats.

  ‘Ham,’ I said, nodding my decision, playing safe and pointing, like a child.

  ‘Yes, I’ll have... a ham... sandwich,’ I nodded.

  ‘Is Serrano ham okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh... er, yes...’ I muttered, then I decided he had kind eyes so I would be honest... Eyes like that wouldn’t judge me: ‘I usually have boiled ham... now I feel a little out of my depth.’ I pulled an awkward face.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a ham snob, but all hams are not the same,’ he smiled. ‘The Serrano is delicious; it’s made from white pigs fed on acorns, so the flesh is tender and quite sweet.’

  ‘Oh... good.’

  ‘It’s air-dried in the mountains of Serrano...’

  I nodded in acknowledgement. What could I say? I wasn’t even sure where Serrano was.

  ‘Would you like just a little sun-dried tomato with it?’ he asked, moving those golden arms over the bowl of scarlet tomatoes. ‘You only need a hint—they are quite intense.’ I watched his lips move in an Australian way over tomato... soft Ts and voluptuously rounded Os.

  ‘...Echoes of chilli... it’s a taste they call umami, which means yummy in Japanese... It’s a new, fifth taste after sweet, sour, bitter and salt...’ he continued, engrossed in the ingredients.

  He looked up at me. I was salivating. It wasn’t the tomatoes.

  ‘I’m sorry; you didn’t need to know all that. It’s a tomato—get over it Dan,’ he laughed, slapping his hand on his forehead.

  I smiled. ‘Oh, no, it’s fascinating.’ So he was called Dan? It suited him—one syllable, laid-back, easy-going. Dan.

  ‘I’m one of those annoying people obsessed with food. I have to taste everything and know its story. You know?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I love food too, but I’m not knowledgeable like you... and I doubt my usual boiled ham has a story I’d want to hear,’ I replied.

  He chuckled at that. ‘Yeah... I bet you’re right. Anyway, where were we...?’ He looked straight at me, into my eyes, and I looked away, convinced he had the ability to hypnotise me.

  ‘I think you were suggesting I have tomatoes on my sandwich. Having had the ham history lesson, I guess you were about to tell me the origins of the sun-dried tomatoes... dried on the thighs of young virgins perhaps?’ I offered, encouraged by his smile.

  He laughed. ‘Ah, so you are familiar with that method?’

  Smiling, he took down the huge ham from its hook on the ceiling and I tried not to look at his arm muscles bulging. He sliced it and I watched, almost in slow motion, imagining those big strong arms round me, the blond bristly face nuzzling my neck.

  ‘So, is this your lunch?’ he asked, placing the tomato pieces with loving care on the ham. He looked up and caught me watching him. I had to turn away pretending to be fascinated by the stuffed peppers.

  ‘Yeah. I love the sandwiches from here. I used to go to Greggs but I like to watch you make them... When I say “watch you”, I don’t mean that I like to watch you, like a stalker or something...’ I said, sounding like a stalker.

  He took my money and opened the till. He was younger than me and my friendliness may have come over all wrong.

  ‘Oh, that sounded really weird didn’t it?’ I said, not wanting him to think I was some kind of cougar type.

  He smiled at this and handed me my change. ‘Whatever does it for you. You’re welcome to come in any time and watch me make sandwiches... if that’s your thing.’

  ‘Oh, God, no... I like coming here to see the food. It’s not like I... I’m not looking at you in that way... I wouldn’t want you to think...’

  He was smiling, his eyes twinkling. ‘I’m teasing you.’

  ‘Oh... Then again, there are wom
en who would pay good money to see you in action... not that I’m one of those... you know... women?’ I tried to joke, going along with it.

  ‘Yes... now you come to mention it, I’ve noticed lots of women coming in here to buy stuff. And I thought it was the French goats’ cheese they were lusting after.’

  I giggled. He was funny. I really had to stop coming in here—I couldn’t help flirting with him, he was cute, but so much younger than me it was positively indecent.

  * * *

  The following weekend Emma came home from uni. It was an unscheduled trip because she wanted her hair done and I was delighted. I’d changed the duvet in her room, bought her nice bubble bath and made her favourite dinner of sea bass with ginger and spring onion. I loved to cook and Emma was always a pleasure to cook for—if I’m honest, I never felt my dishes were appreciated by Craig so refused to spend hours poring over recipe books for him anymore. That weekend though, even Craig rallied round. He didn’t complain about bones in the fish or too much ginger and was slightly more animated and engaged than usual. But despite trying hard to be nice to each other in front of Emma, it was a strain and we bickered. He would say something nasty, or simply not answer when I spoke to him, which would irritate me and I’d build up to boiling point and we’d end up rowing again. Though we never addressed it, we’d both given up trying, yet I didn’t want Emma’s stay ruined by our troubles—I was worried she’d never come home again if it meant listening to her parents arguing. This made me feel under pressure and consequently even more stressed and prone to snap at Craig.

  ‘Dad’s so bloody grumpy all the time,’ Emma complained while on a “girls” shopping trip in town for new shoes.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Em. He’s no different from usual—you probably just never noticed when you lived at home. I don’t see it anymore,’ I said, annoyed that we’d spoiled her short homecoming. We had stopped at Costa where Emma always insisted on going for fancy-flavoured coffees with whipped cream and toppings. She ordered vanilla lattes as we chatted about Craig’s irritability.

  ‘He’s always been a moody sod,’ she sighed, leaning against the counter. ‘I don’t know why you put up with him... he doesn’t even talk to you.’

  I felt uncomfortable. For Emma to be so critical of her dad, it must be bad, but I didn’t want to burden her with my unhappiness. ‘He was lovely once, Em; he was kind, considerate, and though he’s never been a big talker he is a good dad. I think he found it easier when you were little, but life changes you, Em. Work and worry take over and we all turn into what we said we never would. His own dad was always mean to his mum... your dad hated it.’

  ‘Don’t let him be mean to you, Mum. I can’t imagine him being anything other than “grumpy Dad”. He never really talks to me either... just at me.’

  ‘He doesn’t find it easy to communicate, and now you’re an adult I think he probably finds it hard to think of the right thing to say.’

  ‘He certainly isn’t short of words when he’s telling me how much my rent is and how he’s had to put back retirement for five years because I’m at university...’

  ‘Oh, don’t feel guilty about money, love. He’ll never retire anyway. Imagine your dad without plumbing?’

  ‘Like Ant without Dec,’ she laughed.

  I made light of it to Emma but was angry with Craig for implying it was her fault he couldn’t take early retirement. We paid her rent but the rest was a student loan she’d one day be crippled with and I felt bad we couldn’t do more for her. She lived on nothing as it was and I noticed she’d lost weight, which might have been intentional, but could have been due to the fact she was short of money.

  ‘Are you okay? Can you live on the money we give you?’ I asked. ‘You are eating well aren’t you, love?’

  ‘Oh yeah, great. I eat too much... it’s fine, honestly, Mum.’

  She’d say that anyway, not wanting to worry me—but I did worry about her all the time. Why did I always feel the guilt for everyone? I felt guilty on mine and Craig’s behalf because we couldn’t buy our daughter a new laptop or a car or simply give her more to live on. I had some money put away and every now and then I’d send her a cheque, but she would send it back saying she was fine and it was my rainy-day money and I might need it myself someday. Perhaps she was right? It wasn’t exactly a secret, but I’d never mentioned to Craig that I had a small savings account. It gave me a feeling of security knowing I had something just for myself.

  ‘Your dad’s good at what he does, but I think he’s lost custom over the years because of his...’

  ‘Personality?’ she asked.

  I smiled. ‘Not exactly, but he just doesn’t do small talk and never smiles. Where others are nudging and winking and flirting and flattering, your dad can come over sometimes as... a bit rude.’

  ‘Yeah, he has no concept of customer care...’ she sighed, tapping her fingers on the counter. We both watched steaming foamy coffee land in white mugs to the background noise of a very satisfying frothing sound.

  ‘I think you’re a saint for putting up with him.’

  She sat down while I placed our drinks on the table.

  ‘My friend Vicky says her mum and dad are loving having the place to themselves now she’s at uni. Getting jiggy with it all the time, she says.’

  ‘Thanks for that little glimpse into other people’s bedrooms, Emma—I can assure you dad and I are not “getting jiggy” with anything.’

  ‘Oh gross, Mum. Please don’t use that expression to describe you and Dad...TMI.’

  ‘People over forty do have sex, you know.’ I didn’t point out I wasn’t one of them.

  ‘Don’t remind me. Makes me want to barf.’

  ‘And it’s not always with the people they’re married to...’ I smiled, imagining for a brief moment a night of passion with Johnny Depp.

  ‘Mum, that really is enough,’ she teased, mock horror on her face.

  ‘If you think I’m bad talking about sex, you should hear about Mandy’s daily exploits—or should I say nightly.’

  ‘Oh God, Mandy Johnson. I forget you work with Mandy—how is she? She was always round the bike sheds at school, smoking and snogging the lads...’

  ‘Hmm, well, these days she’s out of the bike sheds and in the nightclubs, only now she’s “humping and grinding” the lads,’ I giggled. ‘Whatever that means.’

  ‘Sounds like she’s taken the Mandy road show on tour and it’s more outrageous than ever,’ she smiled, sipping her drink. ‘You should see the stuff she puts on Facebook.

  ‘Oh, she’s okay, just a bit young and mixed-up.’

  ‘She’s the same age as me...’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re worlds apart. Remember she doesn’t have a mum, and whatever you may think, I believe I have contributed ever so slightly to your success as a perfect human being,’ I smiled.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you did something right somewhere along the way. If you hadn’t I’d be humping and grinding with Mandy in the West Midland’s premier night spots.’

  ‘Instead of humping and grinding in Manchester perhaps?’ I asked, my eyebrows raised enquiringly.

  ‘No... You are kidding. I’m not like Mandy Johnson.’

  ‘But for the grace of God, Emma,’ I said, feeling a little disloyal to Mandy who at times felt like a second daughter to me, particularly since Emma had gone. I had known Mandy since she was fifteen and had started work at the salon as a Saturday girl. Twelve months later, her mum had lost her fight with cancer and Mandy had been devastated. Sue and I had both felt for her, and Sue had offered to pay for her beauty training. I'd talked her through the bad days, trying to convince her the pain would ease. Over the next four years she'd blossomed, though there were still days she didn’t cope well, and she still liked a drink, but it had changed from something she used to kill the pain to something she did on nights out.

  I looked around the coffee shop and back at my beautiful, smiling daughter who’d come all the way from Manchester to spe
nd a weekend with us. I felt so lucky. It made me think of Mandy’s mum. She must have known her time with her daughter was limited and she’d never see her grow up into a young woman, never see her wedding, her children. And then there was Mandy, left in a crazy, mixed-up motherless world and trying to make sense of it all.

  That night I highlighted Emma’s hair in the kitchen as Craig worked on a dishwasher motor on the kitchen table. Emma was sitting on the kitchen chair, her hair covered in foils as we chatted and Craig grunted every now and then. The radio was on and when ‘Wannabe’, the old Spice Girls’ tune came on, Emma and I started singing, and within seconds Craig was banging out the drum bits on the machinery he was working on. It was a song Emma had loved as a kid, especially the ‘Zig-a-zig-ah’ bit, that catch-phrase of the nineties we both used to sing with her in happier times. She’d been about five when the record came out and we'd bought it on CD, and even Craig would dance around the house with her. I lovingly pasted on more bleach, wrapping each tiny piece of foil gently round her hair, and as we all sang along, I thought of what we’d lost, and tried not to cry.

  3

  RYAN GOSLING AND A DIRTY MARTINI

  The following week was tough without Emma. It always took a little while to settle back again as I missed her so much, and with only Craig for company was forced to go back to spending my evenings having (fantasy) romantic encounters with gorgeous film stars in fabulous locations. Constant thoughts of Ryan Gosling and a dirty martini by a pool in LA were the only things keeping me sane. In reality, my evenings were spent with Craig and Ice Road Truckers. The sound track to my life was not Vivaldi (as it often was with Ryan or Johnny Depp), but the TV bragging of hairy truckers and petrol heads. Then there was the incessant football... there was always somebody playing a game somewhere in the bloody world, and who needed a soundtrack from Vivaldi when one had the monotonous droning of football commentators? I’d lift my head from my book to see another pitch and ten more men in shorts chasing a ball and think how the precious remainder of my life was being slowly swallowed up in ninety-minute chunks—with no extra time.